


Aftermath

by Hesiod



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Nevarra, Orlais, Tantervale, bethenril, hawkcest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:18:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hesiod/pseuds/Hesiod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a year since the Kirkwall Rebellion and Hawke as viscount proved to be tumultuous at best. Hawke hires an old acquaintance to smuggle Bethany to Nevarra and out of the thick of things; instead, Bethany finds herself in the middle of political schemes to usurp Nevarra's king and tip the balances of an impending war. Bethany/Athenril, Bethany/F!Hawke</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the events of Dragon Age 2. Does not follow story canon. 
> 
> (Athenril/Bethany, F!Hawke/Bethany); Multichapter
> 
> Chapter 1: Rated M

* * *

Athenril's not a fool. She's clever – maybe too clever – and she knows how to turn a bit into a sovereign, given enough charm. She's quick on her feet and a skilled with a blade; level-headed in the worst of situations and a wordsmith in the best. In her type of life, those things are worth something. Isarius used to say that a silver tongue is the greatest survival tool there is. These days, he might change that saying to just a silver. But still, it's worth something.

She'd like to think that three decades on the streets made her strong- that she's all those things and then a sharp edge, too. Her reputation warranted it. Demanded it.

She is.

She's good at enough things to make a business run smooth and to keep her hands out of cuffs on most occasions. And that's enough – has to be enough – for her. She can handle herself. She's not bleeding in a ditch somewhere or behind bars permanently. She's not piss broke or addicted to the Rose. . . She should be happy with the way things are. Consistent. Decent.

She's not.

It's a tendril, really. A small nag at the back of her sore neck on some days, when deals don't pay off or she's running to save her skin again. Passing thoughts of filling in the missing gaps of a life that isn't easy and isn't always pleasant. She doesn't have the luxury of entertaining such dreams and she's certainly not the type - but in fleeting moments when she thinks about it rationally, she knows she  _could_  do it.

Her small time smuggling ring had grown into something of prominence, even among the other cartels. She had enough coin to settle down where the air didn't reek of sweat and ocean, and the ground wasn't grimed with old blood and carried dirt. Kirkwall was a piece of shit anyway. She could get out of there – Antiva if she didn't think she'd piss off enough people to have Crows on her tail within a week. Maybe Ferelden, then. She'd met a few doglords that were decent enough.

Since the city went to shit nearly a year ago, there had never been a better time. Forget infrastructure, the change was  _visible_. Tides were turning, businesses were restructuring – recovering from the devastation, and Hawke as viscount (which was almost laughable in its own right) gave way to possibility that might have been unthinkable in the past.

It would be easy for Athenril to slip away; to hand out a few favors to keep people from bothering her as she settles down; to dismiss the threat of a knife to her throat while she sleeps soundly. . . On some days, it's a comforting thought. One that might one day merit a reality.

Instead, she finds herself walking among crates of Sehronian sugars, counting inventory.

The day is sweltering, the heat turning nearly everything into something undesirable. She takes measured steps, a quick sweep of practiced eyes telling her that the whole shipment is there. She opens a crate up, looking at the burlap sacks bundled within. She nods in approval to herself, thankful that sugars don't spoil – because based on the smell of the dock, everything else did.

Athenril calls over a lackey who's sitting with his feet dangling off the dock, toes disrupting the surface of the murky water. Another dog boy. If anything, Athenril preferred the Fereldens. They reminded her of . . . she doesn't even know - definitely not of home, because that doesn't make any sense - but something of the sort. She dismisses the unwelcome feeling of nostalgia as quickly as it arises.

Athenril waits until the boy is in front of her and then keeps him waiting a couple seconds longer than necessary. She looks him up and down. He's new and she can't quite remember his name – Lewis? Levvy? Isarius recruited him some time last month but she hadn't talked to him much yet. Not that it mattered, anyway; the kid had a weak stomach and a stumbling step. It wouldn't be long until he realizes that he's not cut out for this life. Or until Athenril tells him so.

"Klave isn't here today," Athenril finally says, watching for his reaction. He merely nods, a bead of sweat dripping down an attentive brow. "Do you know why?"

The boy nods again. "He got caught stealing. He knicked a piece of your last shipment – the one with the tobacco," he clears his throat before adding, "You threw him out."

"Yes," Athenril says, decisively. There's no delight in throwing any kid back to the gutters, but people aren't worth anything if you can't trust them. There's barely enough trust in her circle for her to feel safe sleeping in the same place every night, let alone give second chances. She takes three stamped coins from a pouch on her belt and pushes them into the boy's sweaty palms. "Take a walk, will you? Tell our buyers that I don't want the products on this dock for too long – the city guards are going to want to do their rounds quickly today."

The boy nods again, spinning on his heel to leave Lowtown. Athenril watches him in her peripherals, but her attention is now on the lone figure coming down the steps to the waterfront. There's a stark contrast between dark skin and white robes, and when her eyes pick out the details she sees that it's Isarius, walking towards her from the distance. Still dressed in Orlesian finery, he looks out of place there in the crevice of Kirkwall. Her mouth forms a hard line. He's early.

Athenril makes eye contact with him, briefly, and then starts away. She walks at a slow enough pace that in a couple minutes he eventually catches up and matches stride beside her. They continue to walk the docks, silent for a couple moments. His optimistic bounce is a comforting sign that business went well.

"You weren't gone two weeks," Athenril says, finally turning her chin to look at him. "Did things go as planned?"

There's a pause as the dark-haired Rivaini clasps his hands, as if deciding where to start. "No," He says. But slowly, a crooked grin spreads through his features. "It went better." His eyes shine with optimism. "I didn't have to go far; the contact actually met me in Starkhaven. He showed me his shipment, and I suppose he mislead us but considering the nature of things lately . . . He did what he had to-"

Athenril snorts. "That's comforting."

"I know how it sounds, but he offered incredible rates. We'd be crazy to refuse his business," the man says. He picks at the ruffles of his collar, loosening the tight choke it had on his sweaty neck. Orlesian fashion was a useless advantage in Kirkwall, and he did feel rather silly in the costume. "My dear Athenril, there are things to be done."

"Things are always being done," Athenril muses, watching him fiddle with the extravagant neck piece. She lifts a brow. "The shipment, though?"

Isarius shakes his head, reaching into the leather satchel strung across his shoulders. He pulls out a small vial, tiny enough to place under the tongue if one had to hide it quickly. He holds it out to Athenril, who picks it up between her thumb and forefinger, examining it close to her face.

"Poison?" she asks, turning the vial up and down. The shimmering blue liquid inside had an enchanting quality to it – a beauty that was captivating and enthralling and . . . Her expression hardens. " _Lyrium_." she corrects herself, passing it back to Isarius with a single, sharp movement.

"Precisely," he says, but a single look to his companion and his grin quickly fades. "You look displeased."

"I don't deal in lyrium."

"Well - not yet," Isarius begins.

Athenril stops walking, grinding her heel in the ground to face him. "Not yet, not ever." He's a full foot taller than her, but it does nothing to take the bite from her words. After all, she faces off with bigger men every day of her life. "There's blood in the lyrium trade. I chase coin only as far as I can protect myself."

Isarius smiles uneasily and scratches the back of his neck. A negotiating habit. "Come on, Athenril.  _Think_. With the lyrium purge Hawke's started, do you know how much coin we could make? There's infinite demand for this and we'll be one of the few with a steady supplier." He places a hand on her shoulder, but a warning look causes him to retract it immediately. "We wouldn't deal in bulk and we'd just be the means and the ways for the product – weekly shipments to ex-templars and a couple taverns that'll distribute it themselves. We wouldn't have to find our own buyers. It's easy money. It's so sodding easy that we can sit on our arses between shipments."

Athenril crosses her arms. She knows a fishy deal when she's presented with one. A contact who lies about their product isn't a reliable one. And on any front, lyrium meant dealing with ex-templars - and ex-templars often meant trouble.

She sighs, sizing up Isarius with a scrutinizing eye just long enough to make him uncomfortable. There's a hopeful smile flickering on his face because he knows she's been looking for a long-term operation. Something she can count on. A job where she doesn't have to chase around buyers and get her hands dirty for product. He thinks this is it, but it's not.

She had learned the hard way - through a stint that put a whip to her back and chains to her wrists years ago - that no matter how good a deal, how enticing the coin, business is only business if you have it under control. It was a rule that Isarius had yet to learn.

"The punishment for dealing lyrium is death." Athenril says, flatly. "We're not going to risk our hide for a handful of sovereigns. I'd like to think our shitty lives are worth a little more than that."

"Athenril –" Isarius goes to protest, but the elf cuts him off curtly.

"Enough, Isarius. We are done here."

* * *

Bethany's steps leave footprints behind her; she had stepped out to cross the courtyard where the rain fell heavily. Much like the mood of late, Kirkwall poured.

Documents are clutched in her hand, simplistic magic having kept them dry on her walk back to her quarters. Cadence, Orsino's second-in-hand and newly appointed First Enchanter had called for her to oversee letters from the College. The College had preponed their convention in light of the Kirkwall Rebellion and there was much to be settled.

Change was upon them.

Bethany pushes open the wooden door, entering her darkened room. She starts for a moment, only to release her breath. Hawke is sleeping face down in her bed, arms clamped around her pillow and folded stubbornly beneath her head. Not an unfamiliar sight these days.

Not entirely  _welcome_ , either.

With a sigh, she places the documents on the table and dons her soaking robe. She moves to the mirror - choosing to clean herself up before dealing with the Hawke situation - and lights a candle with only a wave of her hand. The room turns orange. Bethany wipes her face and dries her hair as much as possible, shooting a disapproving look at Hawke's sleeping form. Her robes are crumpled at the foot of the bed (Hawke never really cared for Orlesian finery), abandoned in whatever late-night fatigue or drunken stupor that had brought her there in the first place. Even in the darkness Hawke is pale - much like a ghost.

It didn't happen often, only enough for Bethany not to be surprised when she stumbles upon a visiting Hawke from time to time. Bethany usually reprimands her for coming: what would Kirkwall think of their new viscount spending a night in the Circle?

She shakes her head; Hawke might think herself impervious, but she's not.

It's a fool's act, coming here so late at night - coming here when no plausible business could be used to explain away the visit. But Hawke is stubborn - even moreso when she's had too much wine. People would surely question and so on most nights, Bethany sends Hawke away.

But on other nights, Hawke comes because the day is long and the times are dark, and those days Bethany  _can't_  send her away. The days that Hawke doesn't smell of alcohol, but instead of blood; or the days that Kirkwall politics has gotten the best of her, Bethany knows that her sister can think of no where else to go. In each late night visit, Bethany knows that for all Hawke's iciness, she has a soft and aching heart.

Finishing up at the mirror, Bethany waves the flame to nothing and approaches the bed. Hawke's sleep is uninterrupted, back rising up and down slowly with each breath. The paper thin fabric of her shift hangs off one shoulder, exposing Hawke's snow-white back. Even with the limited view, there are still so many scars.

Bethany sits at the edge of the bed and frowns. She ought to send Hawke home. With someone who so stubbornly insists that she keep living quarters in both the Viscount's Keep and the Amell Estate, there is no excuse for her to be in one of the most undesirable places in Kirkwall. She places a tentative hand on Hawke's shoulder, and her sister stirs.

"Hawke," Bethany whispers. She gives a gentle squeeze and Hawke's eye cracks open a sliver. "Wake up, Hawke."

There's a moment of silence in which Hawke blinks away the blur of being roused from a much needed slumber. Her eyes focus on the comforting outline of what can only be her sister, hovering near.

"Bethany," Hawke says, her voice laden with sleep. She rolls over just enough to face her sister, a drowsy smile tipping her features.

"You can't stay here."

Hawke frowns, her glazed eyes proof that she had been drinking earlier. "Why not?"

"You know why. You're drunk," Bethany chides, her voice sterner than she's used to. "The viscount can't be seen sleeping in an enchanter's bed; it's not . . ." she falters for the right word, "-  _appropriate_."

She swallows then, like the word is a lie.  _As if any of this is appropriate_.

"Even if that enchanter is her sister?" A drunken smirk twists Hawke's expression to one of amusement. Her hand reaches up to cup Bethany's face, thumb brushing the corner of her parted lips.

"Especially so," Bethany says firmly. She wraps her fingers around Hawke's wrist, moving it away.

Hawke makes a face that is more like a whine than anything else. "After all these years I doubt we will be given away. I hate waiting;" Hawke's eye darken. "Six years is a long time to be without you," she slides her wrist from Bethany's grasp, choosing to instead align their hands and interlock their fingers. Bethany is already starting to pull away. "Plus, you never seem to complain  _afterwards_."

"Enough, Hawke."

It's meant to be a soft retreat, but instead, Hawke just pulls Bethany close, rolling onto her back so that her sister towers over her. "That's one I haven't heard you say in bed before," she laughs, mirth crinkling the lines around her eyes.

Bethany's expression is stony, but she can feel her resolve melting away; their intertwined fingers provide a distracting warmth. Bethany's eyes sweep over her sister; flitting from blue eyes to ugly scar, swollen lips to porcelain chest, marked skin disappearing behind thin fabric. She imagines the rest - a thought that Hawke catches onto, presumably from the smirk that deepens on her face.

She looks down at her older sister, damp hair dangling down over her shoulders. It's a weak attempt this time, but Bethany tries again. "We can't keep doing this, Hawke. You know better."

 _We both know better_ , Bethany thinks wryly. Even in the past, the ' _you shouldn't be_   _here'_ s and the ' _I should go'_ s had never quite had the intended effect. Hawke has a way of getting what she wants and tonight was proving no different.

She brings her free hand up and slides it behind Bethany's neck, tugging her forward. She meets little resistance and Hawke pauses briefly against Bethany's mouth, breath tickling her lips. Bethany can smell the faint and distinct smell of Orlesian wine, but it becomes an afterthought - an irrelevant detail - once Hawke captures her mouth with a kiss. It's soft and drowsy, but there's a possessive desire to it. Slow like a fire that just catches.

It takes a moment for Bethany kiss back; to glide her lips along the warmth she's shamefully familiar with, to move against Hawke in synchronicity. Hawke must seek it out, but Bethany does commit. And it's all breathlessness from there.

Hawke pulls her close, pressing their bodies together. Hawke pulls so hard that Bethany think she's crushing her, though Hawke can handle it. Hawke can handle anything. It's not long before her hand has slipped underneath Bethany's shift, gliding along her curves, raking at her back. It's both fire and ice, burning Bethany like an ember and sending a chill that raises bumps on every part of her body. Bethany wonders if it's always been this way, or if she just rediscovers these sensations every time they come together anew. Their mouths part but their eyes don't, and Bethany wets her lips.

They really can't keep doing this.

But a part of her - an aching part that she keeps in the corners of her being - thinks that she at least owes her sister  _this_. Hawke, who gave up everything to provide for their family. Hawke, who marched through a world of tragedy to do what was  _right_. Hawke, who became so cold.

In moments like these; forbidden ones in darkness and in the midst of something that cannot last, Bethany sees a flicker of Hawke's old self. The self that existed before the Blight took everything and Kirkwall the rest. In her arms, Hawke is no longer the Champion of Kirkwall, no longer chained to the duties of Thedas; in these moments Hawke can belong to no one but herself, owe nothing but her attention.

And Bethany supposes it's better than nothing. To have for a moment is better than to not have at all. Perhaps Hawke knows that all too well.

"Let me stay and I'll be gone with first light. No one will see," Hawke whispers as she peppers kisses up Bethany's neck. She makes her way along her sister's jaw. A small whimper escapes Bethany's lips which makes Hawke's stomach twist with desire. "I promise."

Bethany swallows hard, but doesn't say anything. They both know that Hawke is going to stay the night; and they both know that Hawke will be gone in the morning, regardless if she promises or not.

* * *

It's been almost a year since Meredith's fall. Hawke as viscount proved to be tumultuous at best with mixed support from templars, mages, and the people of Kirkwall alike. Still, the City of Chains was a city in shambles; still, the havoc wreaked from the Rebellion hung over the streets like a bad stench. A broken wall here, a torn home there. Scorch marks on the bricks. It was a slow, methodical recovery. Hawke was trying her best. The best that she could do with dwindling favour and the Chantry up her ass - that is.

Kirkwall's Champion - the mage sympathizer who slaughtered them all; the refugee that stood by the Chantry and Knight-Commander Meredith, before killing  _her_ , too. The one left to pick up the pieces of a broken city. It was a poetic twist of dark humour that she should earn a crown for it.

And so Kirkwall stirred towards its uncertain future with a determined sort of irony.

With its lyrium purge calling for fresh new templars, with its streets a stray-curse away from riots, with nothing as it was and nothing as it should be, Kirkwall was the last place anyone wanted to stay.

Recent trend had mages migrating north - a citystate north of the mountains in Antiva seemed to herald them; a new dock system with an ever expanding harbor, coupled with resources from Serheron made alchemy an enticing new fad.

Bethany had thought on occasion about the Northern city-state Ulyuria, and wondered if she, too, should migrate. If she could somehow take a few mages from her circle and make the half-year journey; if she could somehow escape the Gallows without being hunted mercilessly, maybe she would. They'd be safe there.

Whispers of some mages hitting the riches and living in luxury also made their way back to Kirkwall. It was a rougher crowd up north, but it was a land of promise. A nice dream, if she were allowed have any.

Bethany wonders if Hawke would ever forgive her if she left Kirkwall.

* * *

They're in the keep now. Hawke's hunched over her desk, intently studying some papers - stacks of documents sporting different seals. One hand is pressed to the side of her face, fingers grazing the bottom spikes of the cold metal crown adorning her head. The scar running along her nose is vibrant and red as ever, as if it were given to her only that morning. Bethany stands at the door like a stranger, hands clasped loosely around her staff.

There's a courtier there too, standing by the chair. Bethany's never seen him before, but he bears the viscount's seal. He's on edge, evident by his tightly wound hands clasping and unclasping politely behind his back. As if he wishes she'd be more hasty, but knows it's above his place to complain.

Bethany waits for a couple minutes too, but Hawke doesn't acknowledge her. She gets this way in public, even around Bethany.

Cold like a corpse.

The younger Hawke grows impatient. "You send for me all the way from the Gallows and then you ignore me. What's your purpose, sister?" This wasn't a rare occurrence - Hawke is always busy these days. Not that the city hasn't seen results for it.

Blue eyes flick up towards Bethany, granting her a moment's attention before falling back down again. The courtier looks surprised at her familiarity – as if being siblings isn't enough to grant you such passage. But where Bethany comes from, shared blood is everything.

Hawke takes another couple seconds to finish reading her paper before finally straightening out the pile and placing it out on a further part of her desk.

"How are you?" Hawke asks. Her voice is stiff, almost too formal.

Bethany frowns. It was just the other week that Hawke had stumbled in and out of her bed; that Hawke had begged for her touch and pleaded for release. Talking as if Bethany was another of Hawke's courtiers was most irritating. "Fine."

"And your pupils?"

"Fewer. Kirkwall is losing its mages," Bethany states, matching Hawke's tone.

This isn't news and they both know it. Hawke and Bethany speak often enough to know what is going on in the city from both the Viscount Keep and the Gallows. Hawke is well aware of the mage problem sprouting in Kirkwall; she knows the city is chasing them away - that are whispers here and there  _'apostates this, apostates that - blood mages, burn them all!' -_ that even with greater freedoms within the Gallows, it is no more safe to walk outside with Circle robes than it is for an elf to walk up to a slaver. But what could Hawke do? She won't and can't get rid of the templars. She can't change the attitude of the people, or the squeezing oppression of being born with the wrong genetics. It was a cyclic issue with no solution, and even being viscount has its limitations.

So instead, Hawke shifts the conversation to the waiting courtier.

"Your documents prove important; we'll send a figurehead to Starkhaven in the morning. I'll have Bran accommodate your needs," Hawke says with a certitude that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

The courtier bows his head deeply and retrieves his stack of documents. "A fine choice, Champion."

Hawke gives him a nod of dismissal and both the girls are silent as he ducks out of the room. Like a plug pulled from a drain, the tension starts to seep away. Hawke looks as if she wants to exhale and rub her eyes, but she remains stubbornly erect. She regards her sister.

"You look unwell," The viscount says, knitting her brows together. "You could use some rest."

Bethany chuckles wryly. Was she really using the unwell card on her  _now_? "A simple nap won't fix my problems, sister." She crosses the space of the office tentatively, bypassing the desk to stand at Hawke's side. "Look at these dark circles. You're the one who needs rest -" She touches her sister's face gently, the pale skin accentuating the dark half-moons. "Do you even sleep?"

Hawke covers the hand on her face with her own, reviling in the touch if only briefly. She closes her eyes, thinks of all the things she has lost - even this, moments like these with her sister, so warm and gentle. "Of course I do." Hawke says. It's a half-lie; she sleeps infrequently and unwell, but it's the only way she  _can_  sleep, lately.

"Not enough, it seems. Would it pain you to take a break? I worry about you, you know." Bethany traces the dip of Hawke's chin, barely grazing the bottom lip.

Hawke pulls away. "There are things to be done."

"As always," Bethany sighs. How strange it is that their roles should switch so quickly; that Hawke can be so needy in the dark and so icy in the light. She lets her hand fall to her side.

Hawke is back to talking business, her voice bristling with the strange formality again.

"I'd like you to come to a council meeting."

Bethany quirks a brow, briefly thinking she's misheard her sister. Hawke's gaze is even. "It's in two weeks. Divine Justine V is sending some representatives from the West; I'd like a mage in the room to help smooth relations."

"What?" Bethany asks, almost bewildered. _Her_  in a council meeting? She can't be serious. Hawke tilts her head slightly, as if she doesn't understand the confusion. "Me? But Cadence is the First Enchanter."

"Cadence will be in Cumberland meeting with the College. There's no doubt Val Royeaux timed it that way; Cadence will have to go to the convention without any real information on the Chantry's agenda," Hawke says, her lips thinning unhappily. "It leaves the Circle in a vulnerable position; so I want you at the meeting to represent its best interests. You won't have much sway on their influence, but it'll prevent them from trying to cut corners." She takes a breath, and her expression softens. "And I want you there. I've always trusted your council."

"I wouldn't know what to say."

"Just be as you are, and you'll do fine." Hawke says calmly. Sensing Bethany's uncertainty, she presses on. "I wouldn't put you in a situation you can't handle, and I wouldn't involve you in state affairs unless I saw a benefit to it. Plus, I sense impending change-" she pauses, "The bad kind. I'd like to keep you close for this one."

"I . . ." Bethany trails. She bites her lip in deliberation. She wasn't versed in politics or state affairs . . . But if Hawke thought she could do it, maybe she was right. "Okay. That makes sense."

"Does that mean you will come?" Hawke asks.

"I suppose I could try."

If Hawke is relieved, she doesn't show it.

"Good. I'll make arrangements."

* * *

Athenril's in the market standing at what used to be Vincento's shop in times past. These days it was a bit of a travelling merchant's stand; a structure with a table and roof that visiting merchants could peddle their wares from for a couple days without setting up permanently. They had their own arrangements with one another, but it was typically a different merchant every few weeks.

Today it's Milan behind the counter; a western merchant who came semi-annually with all types of Orlesian and Nevarran wares. He looks weary, but she supposes it's the same expression all people bear when they return to Kirkwall after being so long away.

He's picking through a chest set up underneath the table, moving scrolls and trinkets alike from their locations. Athenril waits by the wooden beam, box tucked securely by her hip. She clears her throat, quietly. "You missed your usual mark, Milan, and I've been waiting. Summerday is a month past."

The man looks up, recognition and a smile spreading through his features. "My favourite elf," he greets with a nod of his head. Athenril lifts her chin in response. "I meant to come earlier, but I was detained in Tantervale."

"They search through your stolen wares?" she asks with a teasing shake of her head.

"I never steal."

"Neither do I." She sets the wooden box down on the table, sliding it closer to the merchant with careful fingers. "I almost sold your box to another shem who had an eye for crystals."

"Other  _shems_  don't have quite as much coin as me," Milan says, eyes flicking downwards and fingers touching the unvarnished wood. He snaps open the latches, eyes lighting up with the shimmer of the gemstones. "And I might say, are not so generous."

Athenril smirks. "Precisely why I always wait."

There's a silence as Milan merely stares into the box, eyes flitting this way and that, mentally counting up the worth of the lot. And its worth is high – that much, Athenril knows.

"It seems you've been busy this year;" Milan says, tearing his eyes away from his prize. "This is a large batch."

"It's been a busy type of year."

"And a busier one to come," The merchant closes the box, relatching its locks. "Orlais has whispers. Nevarra has whispers. The whole damn Thedas is buzzing for change."

Athneril crosses her arms. "I'm listening."

By the end of the transaction, Athenril has a heavy bag of coin and stories from the west – hints of war, ripples of change; bits and pieces of rumours that don't quite have relevance yet: The Chantry is unhappy and the Grand Cleric is mobilising from Val Royeaux; Nevarra's king is sicker yet, and an heir must still be determined; Tantervale is crawling with military.

Athenril isn't concerned with politics, but she likes to keep updated about any news that might affect business. It's handy to know when blight or war erupts.

"Tantervale stirs. They're stopping everybody who passes through – suddenly interested in who's coming from where. It's swarming with Templars and soldiers alike. Their army is spilling onto the streets -  _ha_ , as if enforcement was ever a problem for them." Milan says.

"An army to fight whom?" Athenril asks. Tantervale hadn't had a real threat in ages.

His expression is grim. "That's the question, isn't it?"

Athenril hums in response, eyes sweeping around the market. It's the staff that catches her eye first. She's aware of the mage as soon as she comes into the bazaar, wearing long, fine robes despite the day's heat. The mage pulls her hood back, revealing a familiar face.  _Bethany Hawke_.

Milan follows her gaze. "A mage travelling on her own. Stupid soul."

"Yes," Athenril agrees. Her feet move towards the girl of their own accord. "Stupid soul." she repeats.


	2. Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M

Kirkwall smells like piss more than ever; especially in Lowtown. It doesn't help that the stifling heat makes the day's odors all the more pungent.

She doesn't like coming to Lowtown, but picking and buying ingredients is best done in person. Sweat causes her robes to stick to her like another set of skin. She intends to make this trip a short one.

At the risk of being recognized, Bethany's removes her hood.  _Ventilation._  It does little to cool her heated skin, but she feels better knowing she can see over her shoulder.

Lady Elegant fills a small sack with elfroot and another with dried embriums. She also packs a small box of various oddities that Bethany knows Cadence will want to experiment with – a vial of spider hairs, a couple foreclaws, and some Dalish laceflower seeds. They exchange kind words as well as coin, and Bethany turns to leave.

She's taken nearly four steps out of the bazaar before a voice halts her step. It comes from the alleyway behind her.

"People don't like mages around here anymore."

Bethany's breath hitches for a moment; she swallows and in a second she's spun around, purchases dropped to the floor with a thud, and staff pointed at the intruder.

A familiar, smirking face greets the bladed tip.

"Good reflexes; but that won't be necessary." Athenril steps out from the shadows with a crossing sidestep. She eyes Bethany cooly, ignoring the metal pointed at the underside of her chin. The elf seems amused. "I see you've become more paranoid. Not a bad trait in times like these."

Bethany hovers her staff at Athenril's face for another moment before slowly retracting it. Recognition fills her with mixed memories and Bethany doesn't know if seeing her old employer is a good or bad thing. She straightens her posture.

"Athenril," Bethany greets. She doesn't smile, but the elf does.

"It's been a while. I thought I'd say hello. It's not every day you see a Hawke roaming so far outside its cage."

The words brush a nerve in Bethany, but she's no longer the weak refugee that she was upon entering Kirkwall. Athenril might've intimidated her years ago, but not now. "People don't call me Hawke. That title belongs to my sister." Bethany says, not entirely sure what she's trying to prove - only that she ought to set that order straight.

Athenril stops herself from snorting rudely. "Brooding stare, no-play attitude, and a weapon at my face within the first sentence. My girl, you're more of a Hawke now than when I met you ten years ago." Cut from the same thread. Made from the same material. Athenril almost thinks to add 'quick to take offence' to her list, judging from the girl's souring expression, but she keeps it to herself. Instead, she tries to lighten the mood with a small truth. "Though, if I'm choosing sides . . . I still like you better."

"Time has a way of changing things," Bethany says, as if that was sufficient information to explain away the better part of a decade.

Athenril shrugs, "Not all things," she says, and Bethany isn't sure what she's referring to.

There's a beat and Bethany feels uneasy under the elf's watchful eye. She starts to apologize so that she can leave sooner. "I'm sorry about almost hitting you. I thought you were-"

"- an attacker? An anti-mage enthusiast?" Athenril finishes, smirk reappearing. Bethany says nothing, confirming the statements. "Lucky for you, I don't see the point in wasting resources and risking my neck for an idiot's cause. But I very well could have been. You should be more careful."

Bethany frowns. "I am careful."

The elf chuckles, propping an elbow on the stacked crates in the alley. Her brow is damp with the heat, too; but it suits her, giving her a faint shine and a more vibrant glow. She looks as if she hasn't aged at all. "A pretty thing like you walks into Lowtown with a 7-foot stick, Orlesian robes, and heads straight to Elegant's potion booth. Every person in the Bazaar can tell you're a mage."

Bethany stumbles on her words. "I- . . I was goi-"

Athenril waves her hand in dismissal. "I'm just looking out for you, Bethany." The corner of her lip tugs upwards. "Old habit, I guess."

Words seeming to fail, Bethany drops her gaze. "Thanks," she murmurs.

Athenril crosses her arms and takes the time to consider Bethany. She tilts her head, eyes sweeping. It's been almost a decade since they've seen each other. Years ago that soft-hearted, idiot Hawke had let one of her runners make off with a shipment of goods - needless to say, it was the end of  _that_ partnership. Athenril shook her head at the memory; it had ended a good thing. A reliable pair of hands are always been hard to come by. Half the recruits aren't worth their coin and the other half would spill her secrets for less.

But Bethany was different.

Though Hawke was skilled, Bethany brought her own advantages. Unlike her stubborn fool of a sister, Bethany could actually follow instructions to exact precision; she was adaptable and determined - more ready to learn than to protest. Athenril never had to worry about Bethany turning a job awry or shoving a knife in her turned back. On top of that, having a mage at her disposal was very useful. Though Athenril would never admit it, she knew her spot in the underworld - even among the cartels - was helped greatly by the apostate.

If only she didn't follow Hawke around like a lost puppy. The idiot.

Athenril wonders if that's still the case.

Though changed, Bethany still looked to be a nervous thing. Harder, but still nervous. Confident in her own abilities, but still unsure of what to do with them. But she did seem better yet, for some reason Athenril couldn't quite place. Maybe a part of her was just relieved that the Circle hadn't done worse to her, as rogue apostate stories usually suggested about the Gallows.

She shrugs off the thought.

"Time did well, it seems. You look good," Athenril muses. She juts her chin at the ground where Bethany had dropped her goods. "Don't forget your ingredients."

Bethany looks down. She had indeed, if temporarily, forgotten about her purchases. "I won't." She bends down to pick them up, having to place a couple pieces of elfroot back into their sack.

A couple coterie men enter the market and Athenril watches them in her peripherals. She changes her angle so they can't see her face. As usual, she finds herself having stayed in one place for too long.

The reunion was . . . stirring.

She looks down at the younger Hawke, gathering the items that she naively risked her life for. The kid could use a lesson in street ethics. The elf shakes her head and silently wishes the mage luck; but instead it comes out as,

"Don't come back to Lowtown, Bethany. They'll probably kill you."

By the time Bethany finishes with the elfroot and looks up at the alley, Athenril is already gone.

* * *

Hawke pulls off her hood only when Varric comes and sets down a pint in front of either of them. Her fingers lace around the lukewarm ale, thumbs brushing at the rim of the cup she isn't sure has been cleaned. Much like the days she used to frequent the tavern.

"Deigning to visit Lowtown again, Champion?" Varric asks, taking a seat at the head of the long table. He sits back, bringing his ale to rest on the arm of the chair. "The Hanged Man doesn't often see High Town patrons anymore. Not since that crown fell on your head and stayed there."

"I do miss those days," Hawke says with a small smile. She hadn't been around in a while. Her few friends were dispersed now, busy with their own endeavors, but still, Hawke should like to see them more. At least this dwarf, who'd given her her start. "Drinking mediocre ale has become low on my list of priorities lately . . . There's too much to do."

"Too busy saving Kirkwall from itself, then." Varric grins wrly. "One sombre look at a time."

"Why do people always say that?"

"Because you're as happy as an abomination, I'd say." Varric lifts his glass. He chuckles. "Drink your so-called mediocre ale, the nectar of my little palace. You'll be better for it."

"You know, you've more than enough coin to move out of the Hanged Man by now." Hawke says. She brings the cup to her mouth, the bitter taste jogging memories of after-journey merriment. Her, Isabela, Fenris, Varric . . . a band of triumphant misfits.

"That's assuming I want to leave," Varric says. He looks at home there, sitting in his throne of a chair. The mighty hearth casts a warm glow throughout the place, which was always buzzing with excitement. Perhaps in some ways, this was a better home than any High Town estate.

Hawke pulls out an envelope from her robes. She places it on the table, sliding it over to the dwarf. "That's what I came to ask. I figured you'll go stir crazy without a new adventure, and I have a job befitting for you and your . . .  _charisma_." Hawke says, tentatively. "If you want."

The dwarf touches the corner of the envelop, turning it to face him. "You know me well enough. Bianca hasn't had nearly enough action since you stopped being at the heart of Kirkwall's shenanigans. You have my attention." Varric says. His gaze falls to the golden seal, intricate and unique to Starkhaven. A curious grumble leaves his lips, and he taps the seal. "Word from Starkhaven?"

"A warning."

"Of?"

Hawke frowns into her cup, eyebrows furrowing deeply. "Plans. Schemes. Idiocy," she begins. She looks around the room, just to be certain no stray ears are listening, and then back at the dwarf. "Tantervale swells with a growing force." Her voice is hushed and certain. "They know we've just gone through civil destruction; they will strike while Kirkwall is weak and fragmented. . . Lord Hadir plots - or should I say, preaches about uniting the Free Marches. A three-city Chantry base is too attractive an offer for Val Royeaux to refuse; in addition, Orlais has their own plans. There is no doubt they will come to an agreement. Orlais has never had a better chance of reclaiming middle Thedas," she stops talking as a drunk patron stumbles his way up the stairs, spilling his drink with each step. She waits for him to enter his room and continues speaking when the door is shut. "There are reports of movements, rumours of discussions being held . . . It won't be long until they're at our doorstep."

Varric crosses his arms. "Uniting the Free Marches? Impossible. Starkhaven would never allow that."

"Starkhaven will do what's best for itself," Hawke replies. "Their ties are strong with the Chantry, their economies tied with Tantervale. The merge would only benefit them and Kirkwall is a weak ally to have right now. We are at a disadvantage."

Varric shakes his head. He straightens up in his seat, placing his cup on the table in favour of pressing his palms together. He's thoughtful for a moment. "Starkhaven is independent of both Kirkwall and Tantervale. Sebastian would never hand over control to a central power."

"Not when the Val Royeaux is involved. Sebastian only just retook Starkhaven; they, too, are weak. He will not risk his lands or his people." Hawke gestures at the envelope. "Read that letter. Sebastian declares Starkhaven neutral, yet extends his fond warnings."

"That could mean -"

"- War." Hawke finishes with a quick bluntness. Varric frowns. That wasn't what he was going to say, but still, he pauses. "But only if Kirkwall doesn't submit," Hawke adds. "They'll try to do it politically, most likely. Little by little, until they squeeze me out of this throne or throttle the life from my throat."

"Enough of that talk," Varric waves the comment away. "You're going to keep your life, and you will deal with this; you always manage to find a way. Plus, you're as lucky as a horseshoe and that counts for something." He chuckles softly, clapping a hand onto Hawke's shoulder. "Have you told your council yet?"

"We suspected it," she replies.

"And what are you thinking to do?"

Hawke turns to Varric, silent for a beat. Then slowly, "Submit."

"Without a fight?" Varric asks, unconvinced. "Doesn't sound like you."

"I'll have to weigh the options. We'll find out more next week when the Orlesians come. I cannot provoke them. I don't want to give them a reason to prematurely start a war."

Varric snorts. "Well good luck; those Orlesians will take offence to just about anything."

"I'll have to try," Hawke says. "But you know, I also need to explore my options in the event of an attack – which is where you come in."

"The ladies always did call me the heroic type," Varric says, his chest puffing out slightly.

"Your enthusiasm is a comfort," Hawke smiles. She looks around the room once more, then speaks low, "I know that you maintain a spy network for your family with the Dwarven Merchant Guild."

"That's an unconfirmed rumour."

Hawke smirks. "Right; well hypothetically speaking, you're good at that type of stuff."

The dwarf raises an eyebrow. "Hypothetically, yes."

"Then hypothetically, would a rather large lump sum from the Viscount's treasury entice you to be under Kirkwall's employ? There are uses for those shiftier talents."

Varric grins, smoothing down the folds at the front of his shirt. "Now you're talking my language. What did you have in mind?"

Hawke returns the smile, glad for old friends. "Well first, drink your ale. And then tell me how you feel about Nevarra."

* * *

Isarius is soaked from knee to brow with blood. It's not his own and he hardly notices it, only wiping away the splatter from his eyes and mouth. Five against two. Unfavourable odds, but Athenril and him had been fighting side by side for the better part of three years. They knew each others' steps and strikes. Where Athenril preferred to bound and evade, Isarius liked to aim and charge. Five slavers met steel, fast.

Athenril wipes down her blades, sitting on a crate that didn't seem  _too_  dirty, even for Dark Town. Isarius rolls over the dead bodies with a foot, an after-battle grin plastered on a red and almond face. The dog boy is there, too, now. The useless kid had dived behind the corner when the fighting erupted, emerging again only when it was finished. Not that Athenril expected the young ones to fight. She just wanted them not to be scared. Isarius points at coin purses and trinkets for him to gather and the boy obediently follows.

She shakes her head at the meeting gone sideways. Slavers and her troupe had always had bad blood.

Isarius leaves the boy to loot and comes to join Athenril. He crashes down on the ground beside her with a happy grunt. "Our evening exercise probably warrants a couple drinks – one for each slaver, at least. We should go to the Enchanted Elk." He grins up at her. "I'll send the kid home and we can rematch in wicked grace."

"I wouldn't want to take all your coin again." Athenril says with a small smile. Her cloth moves quickly, polishing the last bit of her daggers clean. She inspects the blade front and back, then sheaths it, satisfied with her work. "You go," she states. In warm gesture, she reaches down and trails a finger underneath his jaw, scraping away blood and tipping his chin up towards her. "But Andraste's ass, draw a bath first." She makes a point to wag her bloodied finger at his face before wiping it clean.

The Rivaini looks down at himself, plucking at the once-white shirt that clung to his chest. He chuckles. "I suppose I should. Blood monster isn't the best tavern look." He cocks his head towards the looting Ferelden. "Perhaps I'll stay in, then; the boy's at an age where he ought to learn how to play wicked grace, anyhow."

Athenril eyes the boy with distaste. She can't understand why he thinks that would be a good way to spend an evening. "Why do you keep him around?" Athenril asks. "Do you like collecting shadows?"

Isarius shrugs, taking Athenril's discarded cloth to clean his own battle axes. "He's quiet; I hardly notice him. He's far from it, but with some mentoring I think he could be fine in our ways."

Athenril wants to roll her eyes. It's just like Isarius to see potential where there is none. His optimism is a waste of time. What appeal is there to a kid who would freeze at his own echo? "He's going to get attached, you know. One day you won't be able to shake him off your leg."

Isarius just shrugs again, not looking up from his task at hand. "I don't mind."

"You won't," she pauses, thinking about herself; thinking about all the times she'd escaped death so slimly, about the decisions she'd had to make to be where she is now. She gets up from the crate, ready to move again. "- until you need that leg to run."

* * *

_To have for a moment is better than to not have at all_. The thought flashes through Bethany's mind among other things; it's a jumble, really – she can't quite think straight when she's biting her lip and groaning and stifling a moan.

They're up against the viscount's desk and Hawke's fingers are curled into her. Documents that Hawke had made seem so important before now lay scattered on the floor in their heated frenzy. Hot wet lips press kisses to her pulse, and Bethany closes her eyes, allowing herself to be carried away by the sensations. She's not usually the vocal one, but keeping quiet proved hard when her lips begged to cry out.

It's a new type of thrill, being together in the day light;  _in the viscount's office,_  of all places. City guards and Templars alike were stationed below their very feet. Hawke flips Bethany, bending her over the desk. Using one foot to nudge either of Bethany's heels apart, she continues her handiwork.

The council meeting is in a couple hours; the guests from Val Royeaux are going to arrive soon and despite Hawke's reassurances, Bethany is still nervous. They both know the meeting will hold no pleasantries.

" _Maker, Hawke."_  Bethany breathes. Her robes are hiked up almost past her ribs, and all she can do is brace herself against Hawke's experienced touch. The day is early and her sister has more energy than usual. Maybe they're both a little high strung today, in need of release.

Hawke presses her lips against her sister's ear. " _Shh."_

The meeting's agenda was briefly explained by a contact the day earlier. Knight Commander Ferran of Orlais, Grand Cleric Selam, and Seeker Nadine were the leaders of the arriving party. With them, travelled a troop of 100 Templars to be stationed Gallows for the duration of their stay.

The thought alone made the remaining Circle magi cringe. Templars from Val Royeaux itself. And yet the circle had just started getting used to its new freedom.

" _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fu-"_  Hawke's hand is over Bethany's mouth before she can make another sound. She brings her to the brink before flipping her once again, onto her back. Bethany throws her arms around Hawke's neck, and in an instant there are slender fingers tangling into raven hair. Her hand locks Hawke in place, forehead against forehead, eye to eye. Hawke's stare is intense, and after all this time Bethany finds that Hawke can still make her nervous.

Hawke's breath is laboured between kisses and their crashing bodies. "I've missed you. I -" she gets out, finding Bethany's lips again – like she can't decide between talking and having more. "I want to . . ." more kisses, more twisting fire from hot touches, "to go away with you."

Bethany's head isn't thinking as it should. She moves against Hawke's hand, drawing out dizzying waves of pleasure. She lets herself get lost in the feeling; eyes closed, cheeks flushed.

"We could get away." Hawke continues. Her hand circles Bethany's thigh, fingers tender against the wanting flesh. It's a warm sentiment - Hawke is so strong but she treats Bethany with an uncharacteristic softness.

"Kirkwall -" Bethany breathes deeply as Hawke's tempo increases. "Kirkwall needs you."

"Screw Kirkwall. I'd let it burn to have you."

Bethany thinks to protest - to remind Hawke of the thousands in her care, of the city that she guides, and how she could never abandon such a great amount of people in need. She means to tell her that she's small and unimportant, and that Hawke is fixated when she shouldn't be; but she can't think of anything else aside from the tingling up her spine and the arching of her back as she feels the beginning of an orgasm course through her. Hawke gives her what she wants. She sends her over the edge. Bethany feels it in her fingertips, wave after wave of pleasure rippling from her core outwards. She's quivering by the end of it, exhausted by the euphoria. It takes long for the pulses to subside and for her lidded eyes to open again. Hawke holds her. Presses kisses to her damp brow while she waits, brushing matted hair behind reddened ears. Hawke might be talking but Bethany doesn't listen to the words, just the sounds. She nuzzles her face into Hawkes neck, content to stay there like a babe. Yes, she should like to go away with Hawke one day. But after. After Kirkwall is sorted and things are calm.

Time passes slowly, but soon enough there's a knock on the door and Bran informs them that the guests have arrived. They dress and Hawke goes over a couple things that Bethany should say should she be addressed during the meeting.

The foyer is already filled with people – nobles, courtiers, guards, and government officials, eager to receive the arriving party. Even Aveline is there, standing near one of her ranks with a watchful eye. Hawke stands at the landing above the first flight of stairs, whereas Bethany stands at the bottom. Hawke catches her eye and gives her a reassuring nod.

It's minutes before great doors to the hall creak open, the Kirkwall escort stepping through first. He stands on parade as the doors are pulled open, revealing a large party of 30 or so templars and a handful of people in fine clothes – Grand Cleric Selam is easily distinguishable behind her guards. As reported, the Seeker and Knight-Commander are there too, standing near the front of the procession.

The escort waits until they file into the hall and the doors fully close behind them to do his booming introductions. The group walks deeper into the keep in a uniform formation, coming to stop at the bottom of the stairs. They look scary. They're too serious, with their chins raised high like they own the place.

Bethany steals a look up at Hawke. She's looking down at her guests from behind the railing, getting ready to speak.

But then the Orlesians do something that no one expects. The Knight-Commander raises an armoured hand, pointing it directly at Bethany. "Get the apostate" He barks.

Bethany blinks, confused. Her? She barely has time to open her mouth before a fist pummels it, drawing blood.

Bethany is disoriented, head lulling back as her world gets blurry. It happens in a matter of seconds and suddenly three Templars surround her pulling her backwards by either arm.

"What the hell is going on?!"

It's Hawke, nearly leaping down the stairs with a furious cry unbefitting of a Viscount.

There's a collective gasp from the reception party, but nobody moves a muscle – nobody except Hawke, Aveline, and a couple guards who are unsure if they should draw their swords. Aveline is the first, she brandishes her weapon as she, too, steps forward.

A line of templars get in their way and the Knight-Commander speaks. "It was made very clear that the meeting be free of threats. We won't have an apostate who was instrumental in the Rebellion standing in the Grand Cleric's presence."

Bethany feet stumble to gain purchase on the ground, so as to not be dragged, but a strike to the back of her head makes her world go black. The last thing she sees is Hawke, face contorted with anger, mouth speaking words she can't hear past the buzzing in her head, knocking back templars to reach her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized quite late into writing that Viscount is supposed to be Viscountess (which is sort of like calling a prince a princess - I had previously thought it was a gender-neutral term), so I'm just going to leave it be. 
> 
> That first scene between Bethany and Athenril is actually how this whole story got started. I was enamored by the idea of these old acquaintances meeting - bonded only by a distant memory - in a situation where their distinct personalities could really shine through.
> 
> See you at the next chapter. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the beginning of a very long epic. This story is also posted up on FFN, under the same pen name (Hesiod). 
> 
> Bethany and Athenril have a special little place in my heart. Why not stick them on an adventure together? Albeit, it's a bit of a slow build. . . They'll get to each other eventually. 
> 
> Some housekeeping info: 
> 
> I'll rate each chapter at the top either M or T. In addition, I might be adding in shorts that I think fit in with the story, probably as their own chapters.
> 
> The bulk of my information comes from Dragon Age: The World of Thedas – Volume 1, as well as Dragon Age Wiki. It's been a while since any playthroughs, so forgive me for inaccuracies. This story will not be consistent with whatever occurs/has already been revealed in Dragon Age: Inquisition. It diverges from Bioware's all-out war that breaks through in Dragon Age 9:38-9:40, but might still reference events from Asunder or The Masked Empire. 
> 
> It'll probably be a long ride til the end. See you there!


End file.
